Tied to the Tycoon

TIED TO THE TYCOON

A Club Volare Novel

By Chloe Cox

Copyright 2012 Chloe Cox

All rights reserved.

A quick note…

I can’t seem to stop making my characters do these crazy things. I suppose that’s what fiction is for in a lot of ways, right? I told one of my friends what these two get up to in Chapters 16-17, and she said, “well, my reaction is a combination of ‘OMG lol’ and ‘um that’s really hot,’ so I definitely want to read about it.”

That pretty much sums up my thoughts, too. If you’re interested in ropes and rigging and such, this is maybe not totally realistic. At least if you don’t want to get arrested. Also! This stuff requires a lot of training and such, which I don’t really go into in the book. Jackson’s done that, been there. Ava doesn’t know how good she has it. ;)

About Jackson and Ava: I really, really love this couple. They are both more messed up than I thought they’d be, even though I know that makes little sense coming from the author. I just love that they try so hard for each other, no matter how dysfunctional or damaged or screwed up they are, they just…somehow find it easier to try for each other, and they come through because of it. I love them for that.

I hope you do, too. :)

Chloe

chapter
1

Jackson Reed hadn’t always been a gambler. Well, maybe he had. But if so, it was just one of many parts of himself that he’d worked hard to hide from the rest of the world. In the past, he’d considered it his responsibility not to play with risk, not to toy with the emotional ups and downs that risk demanded. Not because he was afraid of what the world might do to him if he lost, but because he’d always been afraid of what he might do to the world.

Well, not anymore. And he had one person to thank for that.

He sipped his bourbon, rolling the fire on his tongue and savoring the burn. It helped to focus him. Not that he really needed it; when he got like this, Jackson had the specialized perfection of an apex predator. And he was at the end of a hunt. A long, long hunt. The rest of the world would fall away, and all that would be left would be…her.

He knew he was being antisocial, standing on the fringes of the great room at Volare NY, nursing a bourbon and simply watching. He also knew no one would care. A casino night-themed engagement party at Volare NY, where most of the table stakes were of the carnal variety, meant no one gave a damn what Jackson Reed or anyone not wagering their bodies or their services did. Besides, a casino night in the middle of Christmas party season was like an unexpected oasis of actual fun. So the hanging lanterns sparkled, the champagne flowed, the live orchestra played a few torch songs, and the women laughed while the men watched with hungry eyes.

Jackson smiled, shaking his head. He didn’t know many of these people very well, having cut down on his visits to Volare when his growing company demanded it. Which was why he’d had no idea that Stella Spencer had taken a job as a hostess, or that she’d fallen in love with one of the members and was apparently getting hitched. When he’d finally heard the news—where had he heard it? He didn’t pay much attention to that kind of thing; he guessed it had been Lillian who had told him—he’d recognized the name immediately, and it had meant only one thing to him. He wouldn’t have recognized Stella Spencer’s face, he couldn’t have told you anything about her at all, except for that one thing: she had been friends with
her
, in college. And so there was a chance that
she
would be here, at this engagement party, at a legendary sex club.

The woman he thought about every day. The woman he owed
everything
. The woman he hadn’t seen in the flesh in almost ten years.

That was all he’d needed to know.

He’d called his brand new publicist—the one everyone had insisted he needed ahead of his new product launch—and demanded that she get him an invite. “This is the only thing I’ll ask you to do, Arlene,” he’d said. “And if you can’t do it, find me someone who can.”

It hadn’t been a problem. Jackson Reed, founder and CEO of ArTech, artistic patron and tech wonder boy, now rated in the same social circles as the billionaire sheikh groom. Wasn’t that a scream? The publicist had made one call to Roman Casta at Volare and it was done. Jackson hadn’t told anyone the real reason for his interest, and he was surprised that Roman hadn’t asked—Roman had always been sharp. But fuck it. None of that mattered now. He didn’t give a damn if they threw him out, so long as he found her.

And just as he killed his bourbon, he saw her. Standing there on the other side of the room, silent and unmoving in this swirling, drunken celebration, arms folded up around her like a wounded bird. She was wearing something thin that draped over all the right parts of her beautifully, reflecting shimmering shards of pale blue at him in the dim light, and her hair, piled atop her head in some artistic arrangement, was already starting to come down and frame her face. Her face. Christ, he hadn’t seen…he hadn’t been prepared to see her face again. He felt weak. Looking at her was the only time he could abide feeling weak. He couldn’t help but marvel at her, the perfect symmetry, their connection still unbroken, after all these years—even here, totally ignorant of his presence, she matched him: present, but standing apart. He stood apart because he had a singular purpose. But what kept her apart? What kept her standing on the sidelines, the discomfort evident in every line of her body?

This was something he’d remembered, too, from that one all-important senior year at school, when she’d transferred in. She had this impenetrable mask of cool, of charm, of flirtatious wonder, the beauty who could make anyone who talked to her feel interesting, and important, and like they belonged right there, talking to a woman who looked like that. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only one who could tell it was a mask at all. But he’d lived for the moments when the mask slipped, or those precious few nights when she took it off in his presence and was just herself. All awkward, shy, wounded, thoughtful, funny, and frightening intelligence. And eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes that could see everything, whether she wanted them to or not. She didn’t, for the most part, let people know that she could see most of the things that they tried to hide. On one of those nights, she’d explained it to him: she couldn’t help it, she’d said, she was perceptive, but it was kind of rude in a way. People needed their fictions. They needed their defenses.

She almost never let her defenses slip. And she almost never let them down voluntarily, not all the way. And then, the one night when she did…

Well, he was here to make up for that now, wasn’t he? He was here to repay her for everything she’d given him, whether she knew about it or not.

He put his glass down and tried to think of the best way to approach her. She would be wary, the way she was now, like a hunted animal. And he didn’t like how uncomfortable she looked. It had been ten years; he’d have thought she’d have a different reaction to a place like Club Volare by now. There was something that he hadn’t accounted for.

But then he watched it happen right before his eyes: she assembled herself. The version of herself that most people saw. She stood up straight, held her body like a dancer who’d never known injury and only knew how good it felt to move. Her eyes flashed. Her face became that mask. It was like watching someone put on a beautiful suit of armor, and it both impressed him and made him sad.

And then he watched her walk over to the baccarat table.

The baccarat table with the very unusual stakes and several very interested looking men sitting around it, like a waiting pack of wolves.

He put his glass down and moved out into the crowd.

~  ~  ~

Ava Barnett had just started to find her old, familiar groove, holding court amongst these elite men she didn’t know, holding them all in the palm of her hand and far away from anything that really mattered to her, when the stranger sat down in the darkness across from her and ordered the rest of the table to clear off. Except he wasn’t a stranger, even if she couldn’t see him well enough to place him—she
knew
she knew him. Yet, on what planet would she forget a man who moved like that?

On what planet would she forget a man who simply sat down and said, “Clear off,” and people actually did it?

Ava herself had started to get up, an instinctual reaction to that tone of voice, when he’d stopped her. “Not you,” he’d said. “Sit.”

And she had done that, too, and had been irritated at herself for it. Irritated, a little turned on, and very confused.

She wished now that she could see him properly, but he was in silhouette, leaning back towards the lantern that hung behind him. She could see his hands, his large, rough, calloused hands, deftly playing with the deck of cards. The rest of him was a dim shadow, the suggestion of a square jaw, high cheekbones, and close-cropped hair reclining there with confidence. Maybe he was famous? A celebrity? That would explain this haunting familiarity, but it wouldn’t explain anything else.

“Sit?” she finally said.

“We’re going to play.”

“Oh, we are, are we?”

“Yes.”

“And who the hell are you?” she said.

He sat in silence, just toying with those cards. His fingers were little wonders, doing unconscious tricks, flipping cards, making them flutter and dance. Ava couldn’t help but wonder what else he could do with those hands.

She imagined he smiled as he said, “You didn’t have the stake to play with those other men.”

Ava narrowed her eyes. Who was this man? He spoke like he’d swallowed a bunch of gravel, or like he was trying to disguise his voice. But that was ridiculous; people didn’t really do things like that. It was just that the familiarity, the sense that she knew him, was intruding on every other thought, like a persistent itch. It was driving her crazy.

Maybe it was just his manner that made her crazy. She could tell already, whoever this man was, he belonged here. He was utterly dominant.

Ava thought back over the entire, bewildering night. In context—in this absurd context—it almost made sense that some sexy, smoldering man would sit down across from her in the dark and say incomprehensible things. Of course that would happen. This was Club Volare, and so far, it had been the weirdest night in Ava’s recent memory.

It had started off badly for Ava, with an unwelcome reversion to the shy, frightened version of herself that she thought she’d conquered long ago. It was just the sight of all these Doms or Masters or whatever they were, all of these good looking, wealthy men, knowing they were into BDSM and all the things Ava secretly fantasized about but hadn’t had the guts to pursue in ten years. Both times she had taken that chance, it had blown up in her face. She didn’t believe in fairy tales enough to think the third time would just magically work out.

So she’d wandered around this crazy fancy party, at this crazy fancy club she’d never known existed at the top of a crazy fancy hotel—and really, who expects that? A super exclusive BDSM sex club, or whatever it was, at the top of a five-star hotel? And who would have expected Stella Spencer to be into this life, of all people? Ava never would have predicted that, not in a million years, and that just added to her sense of disorientation. Ava was used to being able to read the people around her, to an almost uncomfortable degree, and now there were surprises popping up left and right. It was enough to make her question everything.

But her old friend Stella seemed happier than Ava had ever seen her. And marrying a sheikh. A
sheikh
. A sheikh who was obviously a Dom. Ava couldn’t help but wonder if she and Stella might have been able to talk about this stuff, if so many things might have gone differently if Ava had felt like there was someone who understood her.

For the brief moment when she had felt like there was someone who understood her, ages ago, she’d been truly happy.

But Ava had steeled herself, determined not to think about ancient history and the exact memories of heartbreak she was trying to leave behind by coming here tonight. She was surrounded now by rich, fancy Doms, some obvious submissives, and other types she was embarrassed not to be able to recognize—and hell, it was a party. If she ever wanted to indulge her fantasies, this was the place to do it. So why was she so scared? Hiding on the outskirts of the room like a wallflower? She hadn’t done that in
years
. And it was especially stupid, considering that this might be the place to secure her promotion at work, too. There were plenty of Fortune 500 faces running around the place, and at least some of them might be in need of a new advertising firm.

But she hadn’t been able to make herself mingle. It was all just too raw. Everywhere she looked, there was something that suggested sex, or bondage, or bondage
and
sex, and it all reminded her of a night she’d rather forget, and a man she’d never forget, no matter hard she tried. Funny that it didn’t primarily remind her of Peter, the terrible ex she’d fled, the one who’d confused dominance with being an abusive jerk, and who she’d actually dated for a long time. Instead, it reminded her of the guy she’d spent ten years trying to get over.